


Grey and Gold

by Rhode



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, M/M, Not Cousins, Romance, Shades of Fifty Shades of Grey, some murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhode/pseuds/Rhode
Summary: Sparks fly when Erik Stevens, a broke engineering student, bumps into enigmatic, intimidating billionaire T’Challa Udaku at the museum.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is very loosely based on Fifty Shades of Grey. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, NOT A BDSM INSTRUCTION MANUAL. The BDSM elements in this fic DO NOT necessarily correlate with best practices for real-life BDSM. I’ll be taking liberties to set up conflict and drama. If this isn’t your cup of tea, please turn back. 
> 
> (Don't worry, nothing extreme happens. Nobody will be getting raped, tortured, traumatized or permanently injured.)

Erik knew that he was being followed.

It wasn't obvious at first - the museum security guards were careful to keep several steps behind him. Just out of sight, far enough to preserve plausible deniability. But Erik had been followed around often enough to have a sixth sense when this sort of thing was happening.

Erik ground his teeth together, his lips twisting in annoyance. He wasn't even dressed _that_ badly today. Sure, his jeans were a little scuffed, and his shirt was a little shabby, but this was far from the worst outfit he owned. Why couldn't he enjoy a simple museum exhibition without being treated like a potential criminal?

As he paused in front of an exhibit of masks, he could see the museum curator, a blond, middle-aged woman, approaching him out of the corner of his eye. The curator stopped an arm’s length away from Erik, just close enough into his personal space to set his teeth on edge again.

"Good morning. How can I help you today?" she said, an artificial smile of polished politeness on her face.

Erik swallowed down a snide remark and decided to play dumb instead. He put on his most pleasant expression. "I'm just checking out these artifacts," he said, as innocently as he could. "They tell me that you're the expert on these."

The curator looked flattered. A hint of genuine warmth finally sneaked into her smile. "Ah, you could say that."

"Where's this one from?" Erik asked, pointing at a clay mask.

"Bobo Ashanti Tribe. Present day Ghana, nineteenth century," she said.

"Really? What about this one?" Erik asked, moving down the line of masks on display.

Laying his trap.

"It's from the Induu people of Benin. Sixteenth century," the curator said.

"Now tell me about this one."

"Also from Benin, seventh century. The Fula tribe, I believe."

"Nah."

"I beg your pardon?" She looked surprised, and slightly offended. Her smile disappeared.

"It was taken by British soldiers in Benin, but it was originally from Wakanda. See the streaks of silver down the sides of this mask? That’s vibranium. A rare mineral, found only in Wakandan soil. The Wakandans have always liked to incorporate it in their artifacts, even as far back as the seventh century. They had one of the best mining technologies for that time period."

The curator looked annoyed. “With all due respect, sir -”

Erik cut her off before she could complete her sentence. “See, here’s the thing. If you really _respected_ me, you would at least entertain the possibility that I might be right. And you wouldn’t have gotten all your henchmen to follow me around here in the first place. You got all this security in here to watch me since the moment I walked in. Profiling me," Erik said, his mouth twisting in distaste. "What, you think that I'm some sort of criminal? Just cause I'm a black man? Cause I don't look rich enough for you? I sure don't see your henchmen hassling Mr Moneybags and his girl over there."

Erik jerked his thumb in the direction of the only other occupants of the exhibition gallery at the moment - a black man dressed in an expensive-looking, well-fitted steel grey tuxedo, admiring a tribal painting at the far end of the room. A woman in a red evening gown stood by his side.

Both of them looked up upon being pointed out by Erik.

Erik glared at the curator and continued, “Now _leave me alone._ I don’t need you hanging around and hassling me. Just let me view the damn exhibit in peace.”

The curator looked like she desperately wanted to tell Erik off, but with everyone else in the gallery now watching her, she appeared to think better of it. Without even a word of apology to Erik, she spun around and stalked off, head held high and heels clicking sharply against the gallery’s polished marble tiles.

“Bitch,” Erik sneered under his breath at her retreating back.

He let his fists uncurl from where they had been clenched at his sides throughout the confrontation, finally feeling the tension slipping from his body.

But to his dismay, he saw that the man and his girl were now beginning to approach him.

 _Fuck._ Had he made that guy mad?

"Sorry, bro. I didn't mean to drag y’all into this," Erik said hastily, as the couple stopped before him. "I was so mad that it just kinda slipped out."

"'Bro?' Don't you mean _'Mr Moneybags?'_ " the man asked, cocking an eyebrow at Erik. His eyes were dark with amusement.

Erik gulped.

Up close, he suddenly realized that Mr Moneybags was _very_ handsome. Extremely, _devastatingly_ handsome. Dark skin, brilliant white teeth and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The amused, ironic smirk on his face sent flutters through Erik’s stomach.

Suddenly tongue-tied, Erik could only stammer, “Ah- I’m sorry -”

"No, I'm just teasing you," the man said reassuringly, his smirk widening to a brilliant smile. He held out his hand for Erik to shake. "My name is T'Challa."

 _T’Challa?_ That name was quite unusual, but it somehow seemed to ring a bell in Erik’s mind. It sounded oddly familiar, as if Erik had heard it somewhere before.

"Erik Stevens," Erik mumbled.

 _Shit._ His palms were sweating - he couldn’t shake this gorgeous man’s hand with wet palms. Erik hurriedly wiped his hands on the side of his jeans before reaching out to take T’Challa’s hand, hoping that he didn’t look too flustered.

T’Challa’s hand was warm and soft in his own. His handshake was firm, and he let it linger in Erik’s grip just a little longer than strictly necessary before letting Erik’s hand fall from his grasp.

“And this is Okoye, my bodyguard,” T’Challa said, gesturing at the fearsome-looking bald woman on his right.

Okoye nodded at Erik in greeting.

 _Not his girlfriend!_ Erik’s heart leapt, before T’Challa’s words fully registered in his mind.

“Bodyguard? You’ve got a _bodyguard?_ You’re some sort of big shot?”

T’Challa laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing. My family is just overprotective.”

 _And filthy rich,_  Erik thought to himself. His own parents were pretty overprotective too, but they certainly couldn’t afford to buy a bodyguard for Erik.

T’Challa gestured subtly for Okoye to leave them alone. As Okoye strolled off to look at the other exhibits, T’Challa turned the full force of his attention back to Erik.

“You know a lot about African history,” T'Challa observed. His voice was warm and deep, rich with interest. “Is that your major? You look like a student.”

“Nah, this is just my hobby. African history, African art. Our people got all this history here, but we don’t even get to learn about it.” Passion crept into Erik’s voice as he spoke. “These colonialists - they take and take from us, They convince us that we got no culture, even as they put our treasures on display for their own consumption. I make it a point to come to this place whenever they have a new exhibition of African art, but I’m usually the only black man here in a sea of white faces. It’s fucking sad.”

“I understand,” T’Challa murmured.

Erik suddenly remembered that he was talking to a complete stranger, not bitching to his buddies. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that.”

 _Fuck._ Why couldn't he stop making a fool of himself in front of this man?

“Oh, don’t apologize. You aren’t boring me. You’re very passionate. I like that,” T’Challa purred. “As a matter of fact, this is a hobby of mine, too.”

Erik shifted, suddenly feeling shy. He looked down at his feet. “Um, yeah,” he said. “Anyway, yeah, this just a hobby. I'm not really a history major. I'm actually an engineering student.”

“Engineering? How interesting. I’m in the tech industry myself.” T’Challa took out a beautifully engraved card holder from his pocket and opened it, pulling out a business card. Erik watched, spellbound, as T'Challa took out a fountain pen from his pocket with long, dexterous fingers. He scribbled something on the blank side of the card, then handed it to Erik.

“Here’s my business card. Feel free to call me if you ever need anything, Erik. An introduction - an internship - anything you like,” he purred.

A shiver ran up Erik's spine. Wordlessly, he reached out for T'Challa's card. Their fingertips brushed against each other, sending another electric thrill through Erik's body.

T'Challa glanced at his watch. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I have to run now, but I hope that we can catch up soon.”

“Alright,” Erik murmured.

T'Challa gifted him with another one of those dazzling smiles. “I hope to hear from you again, Erik.”

 

* * *

  

"So how was the exhibition?" W'Kabi asked, looking up from his readings as Erik entered their shared rental flat. He was stretched out on their only sofa, warmly wrapped up in his favourite blue blanket with a thick pile of lecture notes stacked in his lap.

W'Kabi was Erik's childhood best friend. They had grown up together as neighbours in the same apartment complex. When Erik was accepted to MIT and W’Kabi to Harvard, they decided to move in together as flatmates.

Erik shrugged. "Some lady at the museum tried to be a little bitch, but I told her off," he said smugly.

W'Kabi sighed. "Erik, only you could turn a trip to the museum into some kind of fight."

"Hey, she deserved it!”

W'Kabi rolled his eyes. “Sure, Erik.”

“It's true,” Erik insisted. “A stranger agreed with me too. He was so impressed that he even gave me his number.”

W'Kabi rolled his eyes again. “ _Sureeeee_ , Erik.”

“I'm not making this up! I have his card right here with me!” Erik said indignantly. His heartbeat automatically sped up at the memory of T'Challa, and he could feel his cheeks heating up. “ _And_ he was a rich guy, too. He even had a bodyguard - he was some sort of big shot.”

W’Kabi immediately sat up straight on the sofa, letting his notes and highlighter fall into his lap. "Really? You're not kidding? A rich guy gave you his number? Some gross old man? Or was he young? Was he cute?"

"Nah, not an old man. He was like, maybe a couple of years older than us? Dressed real classy too. And yeah, he was cute," Erik said, trying - and failing - not to sound too flustered.

W'Kabi knew Erik well enough to pick up on his embarrassment immediately.

"You like him!" W'Kabi declared gleefully, his eyes lighting up. "Call him back! Now," he ordered.

Erik rolled his eyes. "Nah. You know I'm not looking for a guy right now. I'm busy, I gotta study. Exams are only ten weeks away!"

"God, Erik, don't be such a nerd," W'Kabi sighed. "Have some fun for once. Go get yourself a boyfriend. Or even just hook up with that guy, for fuck’s sake. If you carry on like this, I'll never get to cry into my champagne at your wedding. I'm never gonna become ' _Uncle W'Kabi_ ' to your horrible little brats!"

" _You're_ the one who’s been studying all morning! You said you’d rather study instead of going to the museum with me," Erik pointed out. "Who's the nerd? Anyway, I got no time for a boyfriend or sugar daddy. You go call that guy yourself, if you're so interested."

Erik flipped T'Challa's business card at W'Kabi and began to walk towards his room.

"Hey, you know I'm not interested in men - _what the fuck?!"_ W'Kabi's voice suddenly rose to a high-pitched screech of incredulity.

Erik poked his head out of his room. "Huh?"

"T'Challa Udaku? _T'Challa Udaku_ gave you his number?" W'Kabi shrieked, jumping to his feet. Sheets of paper fluttered around him, scattering about like falling leaves.

Erik frowned. The name did sound a bit familiar.

"Wait, you know that guy? Is he your friend or something?" Erik said, puzzled. “I thought his name sounded kind of familiar… have we met him before?”

But that couldn't be right - Erik was sure that he'd have remembered meeting someone as handsome as T'Challa.

"My friend? _FRIEND?_ Erik, he's a fucking billionaire!" W'Kabi shouted.

Erik's jaw dropped open in shock. "What?!"

"You've really never heard of him?" W'Kabi exclaimed in disbelief. "T'Challa Udaku, CEO of Wakanda Industries? Wakanda, the company that makes the Vibro smartphone? Wakanda, the technology conglomerate? T'Challa Udaku is like, this century’s Bill Gates!"

"No shit," Erik breathed. "I knew his name sounded familiar!"

"Gimme your phone now!" W'Kabi said, pouncing on Erik and making a lunge for Erik's beat-up Samsung S5. "I'll call him back for you. This guy is a catch! A billionaire! An _eligible_ billionaire! Oh my God, you can't let this guy escape from your clutches! I'll help you hook him! You're gonna be set for life! _We're_ gonna be set for life! I'm sure you won't forget your best friend after you become Mrs Udaku, right?"

"What the fuck, W'Kabi?" Erik yelled. "I talked to the guy for five minutes and you're already planning our wedding?! Gimme my phone back!"

They tussled on the floor for a few minutes, like how they had used to wrestle when they were both children. Erik was strong and muscular, but W'Kabi had the twin advantages of bulk and determination. He flipped Erik onto his stomach and sat heavily on Erik's back, holding Erik's phone victoriously into the air.

"Give it back!" Erik gasped, wheezing under W'Kabi's weight as he struggled to wriggle out from under W'Kabi. "And get your fat ass off me!"

He squirmed under W'Kabi, but W'Kabi was just too heavy to be shrugged off. Erik eventually gave up struggling, having no choice but to allow W'Kabi to key in T'Challa's number into his phone, unable to do more than swear at W'Kabi and utter dire threats.

“W'Kabi, I swear to God, if you call that guy for me - if you make me look like a damn fool - ”

W'Kabi laughed gleefully as he keyed in the final digit of T'Challa's phone number. “And… saved!”

The weight pressing down against Erik was suddenly lifted off him, as W'Kabi stood up and dropped the phone right on top of Erik's head. Erik fumbled to grab his phone and slumped back down on the floor, swearing and panting for breath.

“Go on, call him back yourself,” W'Kabi said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, fuck,” Erik moaned, staring down at his retrieved phone in a panic. “I can't do it. I just can't. He's a millionaire! I can't talk to a millionaire, what the fuck. I got nothing to say! We got nothing in common!”

" _Billionaire_ , not millionaire," W'Kabi corrected, with a gleeful smirk on his face. "And don't worry, you can do it. You've already done it once."

"I didn't know who he was then!" Erik protested. "Oh my God, I can't believe it. I talked to a billionaire! He touched my hand! And I actually called him 'Mr Moneybags' to his face. Oh my God."

"You called him Mr Moneybags?" W'Kabi asked, laughing incredulously.

Erik explained.

W'Kabi cackled. “Damn, I should've saved his contact as Mr Moneybags.”

“Stop joking around,” Erik muttered, gripping tightly onto his phone. “Okay. Okay, I've decided. I'm not gonna call him back.”

“What?” W'Kabi exclaimed in dismay.

“I don't want a boyfriend!”

“Not even a billionaire boyfriend?” W'Kabi said in disbelief.

“ _Especially_ not a billionaire boyfriend,” Erik said, shaking his head adamantly. “Look, it - it freaks me out, okay? T'Challa's too - he's too - he's out of my league, man. Like… he's too handsome. Too classy. Too rich.”

W'Kabi looked furious. “Now, Erik, you listen here -”

Erik barged on. “And… and I need to study! You know I need to keep this scholarship. I've got no time for all this,” he finished lamely.

W'Kabi took a deep breath. “Erik, you fucking _moron_ -”

“Oh fuck, I gotta run!” Erik said hastily, making a dash for the door. “I'm gonna be late for work!”

W'Kabi made a grab for Erik, but Erik was quick enough to dodge out of his grasp this time.

“Come back here, you coward!” W'Kabi shouted. “We're not done!”

“Bye!” Erik yelled over his shoulder, as he let the door slam shut behind him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Erik's message notifications started blowing up the minute that he stepped out of their flat. 

> \- _ERIK_
> 
> _\- Come back here!_
> 
> _\- ERIK YOU FUCKING MORON_
> 
> _\- YOU'RE GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM_
> 
> _\- He'd be blind if he didn't see that!!_
> 
> _\- Why would he give you his number if he didn't like you?!_
> 
> _*Missed call*_
> 
> _*Missed call (2)*_
> 
> _\- CALL ME BACK_
> 
> _\- CALL ME BACK NOW!!!_
> 
> _\- I swear, if you don't PICK UP right now I'm gonna take matters into my own hands._

Erik rolled his eyes and deliberately muted his chat with W'Kabi. Then he stuffed his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

Five minutes later -

> _\- Don't say I didn't warn you *winky emoji* You're gonna thank me later!_

But of course, Erik didn't manage to read that message in time before he reached Starbucks.

 

* * *

 

Erik's shift at Starbucks began like any other. He keyed in the orders of hipsters and young college students wanting the latest painfully sweet drink. Tired, middle-aged businessmen looking for their mid-day caffeine fix. And then…

“Welcome to Starbucks, may I take your order?” Erik rattled off robotically, without looking up from his cash register.

“One venti mocha frappuccino, soy milk, with lots of whip,” a _very_ familiar, silky smooth voice purred.

Erik's head jerked up in shock.

T'Challa Udaku was standing right in front of him.

T'Challa Udaku.

The billionaire.

In his Starbucks.

T'Challa winked at him.

Erik couldn't help noticing that T'Challa had very long, curling eyelashes, which really highlighted his beautiful dark eyes, before the terrifying reality of the situation crashed onto him. Cold sweat broke out on his brow.

 _What the fuck?_ went through Erik's mind, followed immediately by _How the fuck?,_ followed immediately by the stunning realization -

“W'Kabi, that backstabbing traitor!” Erik hissed under his breath in rage and horror. “I'm gonna skin him alive when I get home!”

T'Challa looked confused. “I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that.”

“It's nothing!” Erik said quickly. Panic almost made his throat close up. He quickly fell back on Starbucks protocol. “Um - er - you said you wanted a mocha frappe?”

“Venti, soy milk, extra whip,” T'Challa confirmed.

“Yeah, okay,” Erik muttered. His hands were shaking as he scribbled T'Challa's order on the side of the cup. “That's six fifty. Extra fifty cents for the soy milk.”

Without batting an eye, T'Challa handed him a crisp green hundred-dollar bill.

 _Fucking overkill,_ Erik thought to himself as he rang up T'Challa's order.

“Look,” Erik whispered to T'Challa as he handed his change over, “I'm not sure what exactly my friend told you, but whatever he said, don't listen to him, okay?”

T'Challa looked puzzled. “What friend? I got _your_ message.”

He showed his phone screen to Erik.

> _I'm working at the Starbucks on Stanley Street. Meet u after my shift at five? - - Erik *kissy emoji*_

Erik exhaled in relief. Thankfully, the message wasn't as embarrassing as he'd expected. Except for the kissy-face emoji at the end - he was definitely going to _kill_ W'Kabi for that.

“I didn't send that,” Erik confessed. “That was just my idiot friend trying to set us up.”

Was it just his imagination, or did T'Challa actually look disappointed to hear that?

Erik immediately felt terrible. T'Challa had no reason to suspect that Erik hadn't sincerely wanted to meet him. He had come all the way down here from God knows where, in response to a flirty message that he had believed was from Erik. And he had been so friendly at the museum too.

“I -” Erik began, then stopped. He couldn't believe that he was actually considering this.

Erik chewed his bottom lip nervously, and then gathered up his courage to continue. “I - maybe we could chat later after my shift? I mean, you've already come all the way here. And my shift ends in just half an hour. Um, I mean, that is, if you want to… ”

T'Challa gifted him with another dazzling smile. “Of course, Erik. I'll take a seat and wait for you.”

T'Challa dropped the entirety of his change into the tip jar - all _ninety-three dollars and fifty cents_ of it, fucking hell, that was more tips than Erik had made _all day -_ and then made his way towards an empty table. He settled himself in comfortably against the padded seat, and then lifted his sickeningly sweet drink to his lips.

Erik gulped.

What had he gotten himself into?


	3. Chapter 3

Erik's hands kept trembling after his brief conversation with T’Challa. He sneaked glances at T'Challa throughout the rest of his shift, distracted, until his coworker Linda lost her temper and snapped at him for messing up a customer's order one too many times.

“What’s wrong with you today?” Linda demanded, her voice tinged with annoyance. “Do you just turn into a complete idiot when a hot guy is around? This is the third time I’ve had to fix your fuckups!”

Erik’s face heated up in embarrassment. “Sorry, Linda,” he muttered guiltily.

From across the room, T'Challa flashed him a small, sympathetic smile, then looked away, pointedly avoiding Erik’s gaze for the rest of shift.

It was such a surprisingly considerate thing to do that Erik’s heart skipped a beat. _Fuck._ Why did T’Challa have to be so _nice?_ On top of being a rich, eligible, handsome billionaire to boot?

Erik gritted his teeth and forced his customer-service smile back onto his face, trying hard not to think about him for the rest of his shift.

It didn’t really work.

 

* * *

 

Linda had considerably mellowed out by the time their shift was over.

“Hey, good luck with your date,” she said, gesturing vaguely in T’Challa’s direction.

T’Challa was bent over his tablet at the moment, engrossed in something. His work? He hadn’t seemed to notice that it was already five and Erik’s shift had ended.

Erik swallowed hard.

_Date. With a billionaire._

“Yeah. Thanks,” he whispered.

He glanced to the side, doing a quick last-minute check of his reflection in the silvery surface of the hot water flask.

_Fuck!_ He looked like a mess. In despair, he swiped a hand over his brow. It came away wet with cold sweat.

Linda laughed. “I’ve never seen you so shy before. It’s cute! Relax. Try not to act too awkward.”

“How?”

“You know, ask him tons of questions about his life. Guys like it when you act interested in them. Act cool. Tell jokes. Stuff like that.” Linda shrugged.

“I can’t - I can’t think of any jokes,” Erik said, panicked. “I’m just, like, not very funny.”

Linda rolled her eyes. “Look, just be yourself. Go on.” She gave him a little shove in T’Challa’s direction.

With no other choice, Erik slowly made his way over to T’Challa. T’Challa glanced up as he approached, then gave him a distracted smile.

“I’m so sorry, I need to finish this urgently. Do you mind?”

Erik took the seat opposite him, grateful for the short reprieve. “Yeah, go ahead.”

T’Challa bent over his screen again, tapping at it with his stylus, occasionally letting out little noises of concentration. Lines of code scrolled by so quickly that Erik’s eyes could barely keep track of them.

The minutes passed. Anxiety crept up Erik’s spine again, and he discreetly wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his jeans under the table.

_T’Challa is so busy. So important. What the fuck am I doing here, meeting a man like this -_

His train of thought was cut off when T’Challa looked up, making direct eye contact with him. Erik’s heart skipped a beat as he stared straight into T’Challa’s warm brown eyes.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” T’Challa said apologetically, snapping the cover of his tablet shut.

Erik’s mind went blank. _Fuck!_ He wasn’t prepared for this. “Okay. Oh shit, no, wait, I mean, um, it’s okay. It’s fine. It was only for a couple minutes,” he babbled. Inwardly, he cursed himself for sounding like a complete idiot.

T’Challa laughed. “I’m sure you don’t want to have a coffee with me. You must be sick of it already after working here. I know it’s a bit early for dinner, but do you have any plans? I know of a nice Chinese restaurant nearby.”

Erik nodded, mouth dry. “Sure.”

 

* * *

 

To Erik’s surprise, the restaurant that T’Challa led them to wasn’t the fancy, upscale place that he had expected someone like T’Challa to favour. Instead, it was a small, unassuming place restaurant at the corner of the street.

Once they were seated, T'Challa barely glanced at the laminated dog-eared menu with photographs and English descriptions of the dishes. He just called the young waitress over and ordered in fluent Chinese instead.

“Wow, I didn't know you could speak Chinese,” Erik said, impressed.

“My company does some business in China. It was useful to learn the language,” T'Challa said.

That small reminder of T'Challa's billionaire status made Erik clam up again. Tongue-tied, he stared down at the wood grain of the table.

“You're awfully quiet now,” T'Challa observed. His tone was kind. “Back at the museum -”

“I didn't know who you were back then,” Erik admitted in a rush. “I mean, I could tell you were rich, but - well. I didn't know you were… you.” He let his voice trail off as he gestured vaguely in T'Challa's direction. “Otherwise I wouldn't have said all that about - ”

_Mr Moneybags,_ the little voice in his head whispered helpfully. Erik glanced down again, mortified.

T'Challa chuckled affectionately. “You're very cute, Erik.” He didn't sound offended at all.

Erik could feel a hot blush creeping up his neck.

“So, that message?” T'Challa prompted. “The one that your friend sent me?”

“Oh God, that was W'Kabi,” Erik groaned. He launched into a short summary of his conversation with W'Kabi, and how determined W'Kabi had been to set them up, carefully omitting all mention of implied gold-digging.

“W'Kabi is just like that. He can be, uh, enthusiastic. I hope you're not mad that he tricked you,” Erik said nervously. “I mean, it's not as if I really didn't want to meet you…”

“Of course I'm not angry,” T'Challa assured him. “You're lucky to have good friends who care so much about you.”

That wasn't exactly how Erik would have described W'Kabi. A “huge busybody” would have been way more accurate, but T'Challa sounded so wistful that Erik decided not to correct him. He supposed that it would be difficult for T’Challa to find friends that he could trust, instead of people who were just into him for the money.

Talking about W’Kabi led easily to talking about his other friends, his classmates, his school, his family. T’Challa somehow managed to coax a ton of stories out of Erik. Tales of growing up with W’Kabi, how they had both studied hard to get out of Oakland, how he was having difficulties adjusting to the pace and the rigours of his course at MIT... T’Challa was patient, sympathetic and a _very_ good listener. He showed so much interest in the tales of Erik’s mundane life that Erik had quite forgotten all of Linda’s earlier advice about pretending to act interested in T’Challa instead.

Time seemed to fly by. By the time they had finally, _finally_ finished dinner, it was somehow already eleven o’clock.

Erik couldn’t believe that he had lost track of time like that. “Oh fuck, I really have to run. I’ve got class at eight tomorrow morning!”

T’Challa gestured for the waiter to bring the bill. He insisted on paying for the entire meal, over Erik’s half-hearted objections. “Stop that, you know I can afford it,” T’Challa said, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Erik’s inner gold-digger won out. He gave up and let T’Challa pay for it all.

“We should do this again,” T’Challa said. “I’ve been invited to the launch of a new art exhibit at the Hallward Gallery next Friday. Would you like to join me?”

“Um -” Erik’s heart rate spiked, his panic suddenly returned in full force. “Like, as your date?” he asked worriedly, desperately hoping that T’Challa would say -

“Yes,” T’Challa said.

“I -” Erik looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” he whispered.

T’Challa’s smile disappeared. “What’s wrong?”

Erik desperately tried to explain. “It’s not - it’s not you. You’ve been great. Really nice. It’s just that… I’ve heard of the Hallward Gallery showing. It’s been all over the news. The first time the works of Asaria will be exhibited outside of Wakanda. A lot of people are going to be there, right? Journalists? People like that?”

T’Challa sighed. “Most likely. It’s a high-profile event, yes. You’re not comfortable with the visibility? Appearing in public with me?”

Erik swallowed. It would be really rude to say yes, but -

“I understand,” T’Challa said quietly, before Erik could work up the courage to answer truthfully. “It can be initimidating, if you’re not used to it.”

Erik exhaled, relieved that T’Challa wasn’t going to press him on this. Still, the undertone of disappointment in T’Challa’s voice made him feel terribly guilty. “I’m sorry. I’m just not really ready for that yet. I mean, we’ve only just met -”

T’Challa was smiling and shaking his head. “It’s all right. I get it. You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I’ll keep in mind your desire for privacy when I’m planning our future dates.” His eyes twinkled.

Erik inhaled sharply. _Future dates_... the thought of it made his heart skip a beat. But wasn’t it kind of an arrogant assumption? Erik hadn’t actually agreed to go on any future dates with T’Challa yet. Then again, T’Challa wasn’t _wrong -_ Erik would jump at the chance to see him again.

T‘Challa watched the internal conflict play out across Erik’s face with a small, amused smirk. “Let’s go. I’ll have my driver drop you off at your house. It’s too late for you to take the bus.”

But Erik felt bad for making T’Challa go out of the way to drop him off. “Oh, I can just call an Uber. I don’t wanna cause any trouble -”

“Nonsense. I insist. It’s my fault for keeping you so late - though it’s _your_ fault for being so fascinating. Let’s go.”

T’Challa steered a blushing Erik out of the restaurant with a hand resting against the small of his back. A black Jaguar was parked directly outside the small restaurant, looking extremely incongruous next to the cheap Hondas and Toyotas parked beside it. The back passenger-side door automatically slid open as they approached, revealing a softly-lighted interior of plush upholstered seats and sleek black curves.

Erik made a last, half-hearted protest before getting in.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated! 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://starawr.tumblr.com) :)


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